


The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Android

by TARDISTraveller42



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crimes & Criminals, Deductions, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Holodecks/Holosuites, Humor, Investigations, Might be an AU might just be holodeck shenanigans, Mystery, Sherlock Holmes AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24321733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TARDISTraveller42/pseuds/TARDISTraveller42
Summary: When a wealthy London neighborhood has trouble with their newly installed electricity, Sherlock Holmes (Data) and Dr. Watson (Geordi) are on the case. Is this just a wiring job gone wrong? Or is there something more dastardly afoot?Or, Data and Geordi mess around on the Holodeck, whose safety controls may or may not be functioning today.
Relationships: Data & Geordi La Forge, Data/Geordi La Forge
Comments: 26
Kudos: 47





	1. Dr. Watson enjoys time away from murder investigations

Chapter One:

_“The past two weeks in our Baker Street flat have been the quietest I have known in the company of my good friend Sherlock Holmes. The wind rustles softly through the trees outside. Children race down the street in groups of three or four, carrying kites, balloons, and the like. The springtime air is lifting the cobwebs from the mantle; shining sunbeams through the dirty window. Perhaps it is this same springtime that is causing me feelings of such tranquility._

__

_“More likely, it is the lack of murder._

__

_“Holmes has not been involved in a single case since his triumph over the Three Eyed Bandit one month ago. I can tell that he is getting anxious for activity; the piece he is currently composing for his blasted violin is almost grating on my ears. But, just this once, his dilemma is to my benefit. Never before have I enjoyed such peace in this house. For all of the pleasure I take in helping Holmes solve mysteries, prevent disaster, and cure London of its many ills, there is such a thing as too much talk of murder and intrigue._

__

_“Just recently, I have begun a routine of taking a quiet walk about town each morning. I prefer the aroma of a bakery to that of a jail cell any day, and I now get to experience what it is like to have the former without the latter swiftly following. Even my practice seems to have been rejuvenated during Holmes’ dry spell. When one is accustomed to murder, espionage, and bullet grazes, a sprained wrist invokes more annoyance than pity. But now, I am finding a joy in the simplicity of my patient’s ailments. Hearing little David laugh for the first time since his bicycle incident sparked within me a feeling of domestic bliss so powerful that I believed myself a family man, at least for one afternoon.”_

“Watson?” 

_“This truly is one of the most remarkable times in our long years together; specifically because it is unremarkable. One day soon, Holmes will take on another case. We will chase after burglars and thieves once more. But just now-”_

“Watson.”

_“I feel that we can just be companions. Two single bachelors, living peaceably among one another. A time like this may never come again, so I am trying to enjoy it as much as I can before it-”_

. . . . . . . . . .

“Geordi!”

“What?!”

Geordi dropped his pen to the desk with a little more force than he meant to. The clacking sound it made against the wood seemed like it echoed for long minutes, though it could only have been a second or two.

Even Data, standing there with his violin in his outstretched hand, jumped at the loud noise.

“Sorry,” Geordi said with a grimace. “What’s up, Data?”

“Are you ready to begin the simulation?”

Geordi let out a breath. “Data, I’ve been in character for almost ten minutes. What on earth have you been doing?”

“I was rehearsing my violin piece, while I waited for you to be ready to begin.”

Geordi shook his head with an amused smile. Gosh, what a pair they made. And they were going to try and solve a Sherlock Holmes-style mystery designed by the computer?

“Shall we go back into roleplaying, then?” Data asked sweetly.

It was impossible to stay frustrated at that face, bright-eyed as he was. Those eyes, combined with the collar rising high on his neck, combined with his polite little voice…

“Yeah,” Geordi said, turning back to his desk. “Let’s do it.”

When next Data spoke, it was with his overdramatic English accent.  
. . . . . . . . . . .

“What have you been writing, Watson? You have been at it for quite some time now.”

“I’m sorry, dear chap; I have been quite enthralled,” I replied. “I’ve been scribing my latest entry into my book of our adventures.”

“There is not much to tell of late, Watson.” Holmes sighed, lowering his violin toward the floor. “Never have I seen London so quiet.”

I have to admit, I was not nearly as downcast as Holmes at the prospect of a quiet London. After a lifetime spent narrowly avoiding thundering carriages and street-savvy merchants, a spell of calm was just what the doctor ordered. 

“That isn’t such a bad thing. Is it, Holmes?”

Holmes sighed again. His violin placed neatly on the armchair, he raised a hand to his chin and began pacing. All the way to one side of the room he went; then returned in five steps more. He repeated the action thrice, each time appearing more and more bereft. When he stopped by the hearth and began staring longingly into the fire, I had finally seen enough.

“Holmes, I believe that what you require is an evening’s walk.”

Before he could reply, I stood and took my hat from its hook. By the view from the window, it was still relatively warm outside; no coat would be required tonight. Therefore, I had the perfect opportunity to persuade Holmes out of doors without any time for argument.

“Come along, dear fellow,” I said with an encouraging smile. “As a doctor, I must implore you to get some fresh air and exercise. Especially on an evening such as this.”

Holmes nodded, his shining yellow eyes brightening as the idea simmered in his head. 

“For once, Watson, I believe I will listen to your medical advice.”

In one swift motion, he slid a top hat over his dark, slicked back hair and snatched his walking stick from its usual place by the door. 

I am always proud when my expertise causes a positive change in a person’s life, however small that change may be. But I am especially proud when that person is my friend Sherlock Holmes. He can be a stubborn fellow, and prone to unhealthy habits. Because of this, getting him out of doors for a stroll is a special kind of victory for me. 

As I followed Holmes out of our flat that evening, maneuvering my gloves over my fingertips, I was happy. London was quiet. The evening was still. And Holmes and I were on our way into London to have a genial night about town. It was a time of simple pleasures, and I was determined to soak in each one that I had the good fortune to meet.


	2. A Quiet Night in Town

Chapter Two

The weather that evening, as we wandered up and down London’s busiest streets, was perfection. Our waistcoats were just enough to keep out the chill in the air, while the heat from the waning sun warmed our faces without burning. Many of our fellow Londoners seemed to hold a similar opinion. The outdoor markets were booming, families drifted to and fro like droves of carnival goers, and on every street was an advertisement for some show or other.

As we passed down one cobblestoned lane, Holmes smiled wide.

“Watson, look at that!”

I followed his finger to the sign of a stall standing across the street. The shelves were lined with jars of honey, guarded by a beekeeper who was positively beaming with joy. 

. . . . . . . . . . .

“In the story ‘His Last Bow’, it is explained that Sherlock Holmes eventually retires and takes up beekeeping,” Data said eagerly, staring at the honey seller across the street.

Geordi smiled. He loved roleplaying, but he loved watching Data’s enthusiasm for Sherlock Holmes lore even more. 

“You should go get some honey, D. Maybe we can find a way to get it off the Holodeck one of these days.”

Data turned his gaze to Geordi. 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Doctor,” Holmes said, “do you believe in the healing capabilities of honey?”

I nodded with a tilt of the head. “Some researchers have found some benefits in consuming honey regularly, yes. Holmes, if you want the honey, then I will not stop you. And I will gladly join you in eating it, if you don’t mind.”

“I will buy you your own jar, old chap,” Holmes said with a strong hand placed on my shoulder. “You have served me very well in these past few years. You deserve at least a jar of honey for all of the trouble I have put you through.”

I admit that I was rather touched by his words, as simple as they were. It was not often that Holmes admitted the amount of faith and reliance he placed in me. Sometimes I doubted it myself; he always seemed to be the one rescuing me. But in moments like this, I realized that the man really did care, even if he did not always express it quite as loudly as others may have.

Within a few moments, filled with a shoving crowd and shouting merchants, we had our honey. It was a gorgeous color; amber yellow. Not unlike Holmes’ eyes. I carried the jar as carefully as one might carry a particularly expensive set of china. It seemed a fragile and special thing, this jar of honey. A rare treat as well as a rare symbol of my friendship with Holmes. He could be a tricky fellow to live with at times, aloof and private as he could be when he was in the mood for it. But in that moment, holding the jar of pure honey, I felt that our bond had never been stronger.

“Is there anything else you wished to do in London tonight, Watson?”

I turned about myself. The streets were still relatively crowded, with people filing from merchant stalls to pubs and restaurants as the sun sank below even the shortest of buildings. But I was not yet bored of the city bustle. The fresh air was a relief for my dust-lined lungs, and tomorrow I knew I would have to return to my practice. 

I wished this night to go on for a little bit longer.

“Step right up. Step right up!” A man suddenly shouted above me.

I staggered, nearly into Holmes, at the sound of the barking voice. My head turned up to find a man standing on a platform. He wore a crimson top hat, which shone nearly as brightly as his gleaming white teeth. 

“Come and see something that you have never seen before!” the man promised to the crowd surrounding me.

I pointed him out to Holmes.

“Would you be interested in attending this man’s show?” I asked. Perhaps I made myself sound like an eager young boy. But it was thrilling, to be a part of the crowd and listen to the man’s booming voice. 

When I happened to see it in the gas lamp above his head, Holmes’ expression dampened my enthusiasm. His smile was pitiful; the kind that one generally offers a child who has asked for a pony, or some other impossible gift.

“What is it, Holmes?”

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Circuses in this period were not what we would consider...ethical,” Data murmured under his breath.

Geordi’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean? I know they didn’t have our tech, but...how bad could it have been? It’s the circus.”

Data tugged Geordi away from the crowd. It sure was a strange moment, for Data to break character and drag Geordi halfway down the street. When they were stood in the light of an outdoor restaurant, Geordi made sure to listen carefully to his friend’s quiet voice.

“Circuses in these days often engaged in exploitation, of animals and of humans.” Data frowned sharply. His expression told Geordi that he hated telling him this almost as much as he hated the crude circus itself. “I am afraid that viewing the practices of this time may be...upsetting.”

Geordi let out a breath.

“Wow, I had no idea.” With a shake of the head, he clapped Data on the shoulder. “Good call, D.”

Data gave him an encouraging nod.

“Are you ready to resume our role play?”

“Yeah. You?”

. . . . . . . . . .

We continued along the cobblestones until we reached the corner, then turned left. Both of us, of course, knew exactly where we were going. This road would eventually lead home, but it was the longer path. The decision to take this route was made by each of us independently; no discussion required.

As in many moments, Holmes and I seemed to share one mind. 

“It is a lovely night, Watson,” Holmes declared, setting his walking stick under his arm. “I am glad that you persuaded me to leave the flat.”

“Sometimes, Holmes, a walk is...all...that you...hold on.”

I had spotted something in the corner of my VISOR that I could not ignore. Sitting on the steps of the bank across the street was a woman. Her face was hidden in her hands, while her shoulders shook in a way I knew to reflect the fact that she was crying. Something drew me to this woman, more than the other Londoners we had passed along our way. She was different, somehow.

Holmes seemed to agree. Before I had a chance to point her out, he was already dashing into the street. I chanced to glance to my right just as his shoe left the sidewalk.

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Data!” Geordi shouted, as a carriage barreled down the street.

Great. Data would be the one to survive a Starfleet career filled with life-or-death missions and then end up hit by a vehicle during his off hours.

But no, thank God. The carriage rolled past and Data was revealed on the opposite side, safe on the opposite sidewalk.

Geordi let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.

“Data, be careful!” He said loudly, looking both ways before he followed Data across the street. “We don’t know if the safety protocols are working, remember?”

Data’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight. 

Damn that face. Geordi couldn’t stay mad at a face like that, even in moments like this when he should be furious with worry. 

“I apologize, Geordi.”

Damn that voice, that melted Geordi’s heart right into a puddle. He sighed, stepping onto the sidewalk beside Data.

“Just...don’t do that again. Carriages don’t have automatic brakes.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes said, adjusting his collar and patting down his wrinkled waistcoat. “I will keep that in mind.”

Myself and Holmes turned our attention to the woman on the staircase. She seemed not to have noticed us at all, even with all of the commotion we had caused. But now we were close enough to hear as well as see her cries. 

“Madam?” I stumbled forward, removing my hat. “Allow me to assist with your troubles.”

I offered my handkerchief, which she took with a grateful smile. Her tears slowed as she dabbed her cheeks dry. 

Whilst she gathered herself, I turned to Holmes. His eyes were golden searchlights, staring unblinkingly at her form. At this point in our friendship, I was used to his methods. Most certainly, he was reading her every detail; memorizing the age lines drawn into her face and the stain of coffee spilled onto the arm of her dress. 

Just this once, I glared at him. Under the circumstances, I found his close inspection rather disrespectful. Holmes was not always the best at understanding and interpreting facial expressions, so the duty often fell to me. And, in my opinion, the woman was hurting very badly indeed and did not need a strange man cataloging her every flaw and characteristic.

I needn’t fear, of course. After my warning look, Holmes became the epitome of a gentleman. He eased his stance so as to be less looming, and backed up a few paces to give her more breathing space. 

“I apologize, madam,” he said. “I only want to know if there is any way that my companion Dr. Watson and I can ease your mind?”

She sniffled into the handkerchief, and then lowered it to her lap. She was silent for a long moment as she stared at the fabric. Then she shook her head with an anxious smile.

“I don’t believe you can, sir.” 

Her accent was well-practiced; clearly a woman of wealth. (I had spent enough time with my friend Holmes to know nearly every accent of London. It was a gift I never planned on attaining, but that was life with Holmes. You never knew quite what sector you would find yourself working in on any given day). 

“See,” she continued, “my husband, George, passed early yesterday morning. I came to the bank today to discuss the estate. When that was finished, I found myself sitting here on the steps for a long while.”

I frowned deeply at her situation. She did not seem very mature in years, and I could tell from her shaky composure that the death was a shock, rather than a long-expected tragedy. 

There were certain experiences whose effects I understood as well, if not better, than even my friend Holmes. And the effects of a death on one's closest companions was one that I knew all too well. Years of military service followed by medical practice would do that to a soul.

“They said that it was an electrical shock,” she said suddenly. “We were having electricity installed in our house this week.” She shook her head as new tears fell from her eyes. “He insisted on switching to electricity. He always was a forward thinker. But then…they must have installed it incorrectly. That’s what the constable told me. I don’t know anything about it. George would have, of course. But…”

The woman broke off with a cry that shook me to the core. During my many years as Holmes’ companion, I had developed an emotional barrier between myself and the victims of London’s tragedies. But there were still times when that barrier felt as thin as parchment. Seeing the woman sobbing on the steps of the bank, longing for her prematurely deceased husband, was one of those times that my emotional barrier felt thinnest of all.

“Madam, if you will allow us, we will assist you in any way possible,” I promised, and meant it. “Do you require a cab home?”

The woman wiped her face once again with the handkerchief, and then gave me a grateful smile.

“No; I have a driver waiting for me. He should be just down the road.” At that, she stood and adjusted her dress. It had unfortunately taken a dip into one of the puddles of mud caked onto the bottommost step, but she seemed undisturbed by it. “I must be getting home. The children will want me to bid them goodnight.”

“Madam,” Holmes interrupted, stepping in front of her. “It may be impertinent to ask at such a time as this. However, I wonder if we may inspect the new electrical wiring in your house.”

I nudged my friend in the ribs with enough force to knock over a small elephant. But the action caused only a ringing ache in my elbow; Holmes’ body felt as if it were made of pure titanium.

He did at least glance over to me with those wide yellow eyes. We shared a look, but I do not know if he understood why I had bothered to nudge him.

I do love the chap, but his moments of social impropriety often put unnecessary stress on me.

“What I believe my friend is saying,” I said, with another pointed look in Holmes’ direction, “is that we are experts in investigations. Your husband’s death was truly a tragedy, and we would like to avoid any further incidents if we can prevent them.”

“Well,” she replied, stepping to the side so that Holmes was no longer blocking her path. “The police have already made a full investigation.”

“We are not with the police,” Holmes said quickly. “I work independently. With Dr. Watson, of course. We only wish to inspect the electrical wiring in the house, and see if we can make any suggestions as to how to make it more safe until an electrician repairs it completely.”

“You are both very kind.” Her voice did not sound convinced of our honesty. Nor did her eyes, which shifted between myself and Holmes for a long moment. “I will allow you entry tomorrow morning, while I am home.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Holmes said with a bow. 

The woman exchanged her address with Holmes. She seemed rather impressed at his ability to memorize it so quickly, but I was not. Holmes’ memory is what some would call a ‘trap’. I have yet to experience a moment where he actually forgot a piece of information he was told. In fact, it would not surprise me if Holmes remembered every sentence I had ever spoken to him.

“Goodnight, madam,” we each said in turn, when the woman known as ‘Mrs. Browning’ had disappeared into her cab.

I turned to Holmes, who wore a smile I found highly suspect. He had noticed something; seen something, that I had not. It was evident from the chipper way he started walking as we continued homeward.

“What is it, Holmes?”

“Nothing yet, Watson.” He gave me that eerie smile again, which I knew spelled trouble. “However, I am beginning to think that I have found my next case.”

My brows drew together at this statement. 

“Surely you don’t believe that this is anything other than an accident? Or a case of improper wiring?”

Holmes only continued to smile that soft, barely-there smile.

“We shall see tomorrow.”

As we concluded our glorious night in London, I felt my good spirit deflating in my chest. I did not know what Holmes was after just yet. But I did know that my quiet vacation was quickly coming to an end, and it was not because I was returning to my medical practice tomorrow morning.


	3. In which Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes make their preliminary investigation

Chapter Three:

The next morning, Holmes was up before dawn. I was rather glad to see Holmes energized. He has a way of worrying me during his dry spells, when he sits alone with his violin for hours on end. On this particular cheery morning, he even had the good mind to eat a slice of toast with that scrumptious honey we had bought the night before. 

“I say, Holmes. I am glad that you’ve perked up since yesterday.”

Holmes flashed his yellow eyes in my direction for just a second before turning them back to the newspaper on the table beside his plate. I thought for a moment that that was the end of our conversation. But as I began searching for my medical bag, he called my name.

“I have been reading about the neighborhood in which Mrs. Browning resides,” he said. “It is one of the wealthiest communities in London, located west of Westminster.”

I adjusted the collar of my frock coat, readying myself to go to work. But if I were honest, I was more intrigued by Holmes’ investigation than my own medical practice. Over the years, I had tried many times to force my attention on my work; ignore Holmes and his antics as most other flatmates would. But his investigations were so captivating. 

“Is that why you’re so sure that there was foul play involved in her husband’s death?” I asked, continuing the conversation knowing full well what time it was and what time I should be at the practice.

“It is a...significant detail in my investigation,” Holmes replied with a tilt of his head. “Wealthy people in this period generally hire the best workmen for their homes. Good workmen generally do not leave a home so hazardous that a London policeman would be able to notice.”

I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Was that a joke about our police force, Holmes?”

Holmes’ responding look was filled with so much confusion I almost felt sorry for the man.

“It was not meant to be,” he said. “It is statistically accurate that most London police officers are not especially well versed in the electrical supply. It is a new technology, Watson. I myself have only recently learned the ins and outs of electrical wiring.”

I gave him a smile.

“I know Holmes. I apologize for teasing you.” I glanced at the clock standing between the kitchen and sitting room with a frown. With a sigh, I said, “I suppose I ought to be getting to my practice.”

Holmes’ mood deflated at that, and I must say that fact brought me a little bit of pride and joy. It is nice to know one is wanted. Even better, perhaps, than knowing one is needed. Especially when one is wanted by a person such as Sherlock Holmes.

“You will miss the investigation of Mrs. Browning’s house,” he said.

His big yellow eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul. 

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“Geordi, do you wish to join me in my investigation?” Data asked, keeping those big yellow eyes fixed on Geordi’s VISOR.

“D, what do you think?” Geordi asked, gesturing to his waistcoat, his frock coat, the room itself, all with a bright smile. “Of course I do! I’ll just change my story a bit.”

Data nodded with one of his signature half-smiles. Geordi always loved to get those out of him. It was his sweetest expression, when his lips tilted up just slightly and his eyes shined just a little bit brighter.

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Good God Holmes!” I exclaimed rather suddenly. So suddenly, in fact, that Holmes nearly jumped out of his kitchen chair. “I have been rather daft this week, have I not? It is not April tenth at all, is it Holmes?”

“No, Watson,” Holmes said with a tiny smile. “Today’s date is April the third.”

I set my medical bag on the floor by the front door, whipping off my frock with a shining smile. 

“I am glad of it, Holmes. Now I can join in your investigation, if you will still have me.”

Holmes’ eyes shined brighter than ever.

“There is not another person I would rather have.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Damn, Data,” Geordi murmured.

Data held up a pointer finger.

“We are not permitted to swear on the Holodeck,” he reminded. “Do you remember the incident between Commander Riker and the…”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Geordi shook his head with a grin. “But that was so smooth, Data. We’ll make a flirt out of you after all.”

“Once again,” Data said. “I must cite the incident between Commander Riker and…”

“Okay, okay!” Geordi held up his hands in surrender. “Let’s get back into it.”

. . . . . . . . . . . .

As soon as we arrived, I decided that Mrs. Browning’s home was a work of art. She is, evidently, a woman of good taste and even more money. The foyer was symmetrical in all of the right respects; meticulously measured so that the descending staircase stood in the exact center. It was asymmetrical in all of right respects as well. The art on one wall danced a jittery tune in paint; the exotic ceramics on the other wall spoke of a more laid back, learned character. 

“Mrs. Browning, what a lovely home you have,” I said with a smile.

Mrs. Browning, decidedly, did not smile. Her lips were pursed; eyes almost glaring as they passed me over. The look on her face was enough to set me chiding myself for my foolishness. 

Because upon further inspection, the home was not as glorious as I had believed it to be.

Wires snuck along walls, visible and open to the air. In some areas, the connections were broken; obvious short circuits that could easily do a lot of damage. Just a wrong step or a spilled glass of water could spell disaster in this house. It was no wonder that poor Mr. Browning had been killed by this strange, winding mess of wires and electrics. 

“Holmes, this is worse than I expected,” I murmured under my breath, just loud enough for his perfect ears to hear.

Holmes seemed to agree. He nodded curtly, eyes still stuck on the visible wires tracing the wall of the foyer. 

“Madam,” Holmes said suddenly. “I must implore you and everyone in the house to leave at once.”

She was not as surprised as I had expected she’d be. Her nod was solemn, but understanding. That terribly sad expression I had witnessed in her earlier seemed to have grown in the last few seconds, until it was unbearable to look at. 

“It seems that the situation has worsened overnight,” she explained with a sigh. “The wiring was not nearly this horrendous yesterday. I am not an expert in any way, but even I know that this is not how the finished product is supposed to look.”

Footsteps came pounding down the staircase to our left, met with another exasperated sigh from Mrs. Browning. A moment later, two little tykes, one boy and one girl, appeared. They wore their coats and boots as they walked hand in hand with a young nanny. 

“Step gently, children,” Mrs. Browning muttered, with more resignation than bite. “And be careful as you step through the foyer.”

The children obeyed her better than any children had ever obeyed me. But even that spurned nothing but pity in me. The poor children; first their father lost, and now…

“We are going to live with my sister, in Marylebone,” said Mrs. Browning. “I figured that would be safest, until we can have someone in to repair all of this. But after last night...I assume someone broke in, and that makes me feel incredibly unsafe in this house.”

“I understand,” I said. “If we can assist you in any way...our flat is in Marylebone, so we will be close by, if you should need us.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. For a moment, she gazed around the room. A woman wondering if this was the last time she was leaving a home that had seen her happiest and saddest days. Then she turned abruptly to Holmes, who was crouched beside one of the lines of wire. “Have you discovered anything useful?”

“Yes,” he said, to my surprise. 

I had only seen a mess of wire. But then again, Holmes was less prone to distraction than I.

Holmes ended the conversation there, getting to his feet again. With a flourish, he snatched his hat from the stand by the door and flipped it onto his head. I followed suit, taking the hint, and then nodded to Mrs. Browning.

But before we could leave, Holmes spun back around.

“I hope it is not rude to ask…”

“Please, do.” Mrs. Browning’s eyes lit up. Hope; or something similarly dangerous.

Holmes thought his words over carefully. I could always tell when he was doing that, because his eyes flit back and forth; his teeth lightly bite his bottom lip. Deeply thinking, and deeply formulating.

“Is there anyone who would wish harm on your family?” he asked bluntly.

Mrs. Browning didn’t seem too distressed by the question. Then again, she was not in the mood to be distressed by anything at this point. With a shrug, she shook her head.

“I don’t have anyone in mind.”

Holmes nodded with a polite smile.

“Then I believe we will bid you farewell. Good morning, Mrs. Browning.”

He spun on his heel and was out the door before I could blink. I hurried after him, remembering to doff my hat to our client before I left, and found him halfway through the front garden by the time I was outside. With a sigh, I tried to catch up to him again.

“Watson, are you free for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Yes, Holmes. Although I do believe I will require lunch before we continue.”

“Ah,” Holmes uttered, as if he’d forgotten about the concept of ‘food’. Which did, in fact, happen sometimes. “Yes, we will take lunch very soon. There is someone I must speak with. Did you notice anything strange about the Brownings’ wiring problem?”

I shrugged with a frown.

“If I’m honest, Holmes, I didn’t find much other than a mess of wire. It looked like someone came in and ripped it clean out of the wall. They were obviously trying to make it as dangerous as possible.”

Holmes nodded.

“Exactly. However, they were not ‘ripped’. Upon my further inspection, it was evident that a tool was used to cut the wires very specifically. Someone knew how to safely cut and ruin the layout of wires, without harming themselves.”

“But the initial job was already poor,” I said. “Mr. Browning died yesterday morning, and today Mrs. Browning said that the wiring was much worse. So perhaps we should begin with the initial problem: the installation of the electricity.”

Holmes gave me one of his unique smiles. One that I knew quite well.

With a humored sigh, I asked, “You are already taking us to speak with the electrician, aren’t you?”

Holmes nodded, which I returned with a clap on his back.

“Alright, dear chap; you win this round,” I admitted. “But before we conduct the interview, I’m going to have my lunch.”


	4. A Conversation with the Electrician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all doing well in this difficult time we're living in. And I hope that you can de-stress a little bit with this story, just for a few minutes and spend some time with our favorite characters before getting back to the very necessary work we all have to fix our world's broken systems.

Chapter Four

Once we’d had our lunch, meaning of course that I ate a scrumptious stew whilst Holmes sat making quiet observations about our fellow diners, we took a stroll through the Brownings’ neighborhood. The air was crisp, a reminder that we were not yet out of winter’s lingering chill. But otherwise, our walk was fine. The sun was shining. Clouds were few. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue. 

“So, Holmes,” I said, as we rounded the corner of a local garden. “In all of London, where are we meant to find the electrician?”

“I expect he is just up the road,” he remarked.

I paused in my step. “How do you know that?”

Holmes’ eyes twinkled in my direction; toying with my curiosity as he often does. I began walking again so that he would not get too far ahead. And, if I am honest, because I was genuinely interested in his explanation.

Once I was within earshot, Holmes said, “I read in the newspaper this morning, that a Mr. Carlisle was installing electricity to many of the homes in this area. While we were at Mrs. Brownings’ house, I noticed a set of pliers forgotten between the floorboard and the base molding. On them was a label with the same name: Carlisle Electrics.”

I smiled brightly.

“You don’t miss anything, Holmes; I swear. You’ll have this case finished within the day.”

Holmes’ face deflated at that, as he stopped on the corner by an overgrown rose bush.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“I must admit,” Data said, “I thought that we set the difficult level higher. The case is rather simplistic in design. Perhaps we should run a diagnostic on the Holodeck computer.”

Geordi shrugged.

“It does seem pretty cut and dry. But...who knows. Maybe the computer’s got something up its sleeve.”

Data tilted his head at the figure of speech, but then nodded. 

“Perhaps.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

It turned out that Mr. Carlisle was working on another beauty of a house. Decorative wrought iron fencing surrounded a garden filled to the brim with colorful and exotic flora. I almost pointed out a few of the plants to Holmes; they were of an incredibly rare variety and often used in medicines. But he was already at the front food, using his walking stick to knock on the oak wood.

A moment later, the door was opened to reveal a man a few years older than myself. He wore a graying beard; sleeves drawn up to the elbows; trousers with dusty knees. All of these things I never would have noticed before my adventures with Sherlock Holmes. But now I knew them to mean that this man was a worker, he was experienced, and he was our man Mr. Carlise.

“‘Ello?” Mr. Carlisle asked of us, as he wiped his hands into a rag. “Can I ‘elp you gentlemen?”

“We are looking for a Mr. Carlise,” Holmes said, to get the man’s reaction I reckon. He no doubt had made the same observations I had. 

But Mr. Carlisle did not respond as a guilty man might. His eyes shined brighter hearing his own name. A smile came to his face. He even held out one of his large, roughened hands for Holmes to shake.

“You’ve come to the right man, then,” he said cheerfully. “Name’s Edmund Carlisle, of Carlisle Electrics. If your home’s in need of electricity, I’m your man.”

Holmes did not appear to be taken by the man’s good humor. His yellow eyes glistened, almost unblinking, as they stared straight into Carlisle’s. Though he took the man’s hand, he let it go after a very brief shake and then backed up a pace.

“After seeing your work in Mrs. Brownings’ home, I do not believe that you really are the best man for an electricity job,” Holmes stated bluntly.

I was almost shocked, but I secretly knew that there was a point to Holmes’ apparent lack of personability. When on a case, especially at an intervention, Holmes’ every action is calculated.

Mr. Carlisle, apparently, did not share my knowledge of my friend’s behavior. As soon as the words sank in, his face reddened; hands clenched into fists. Then he launched at Holmes, with a jabbing pointer finger and only about a centimeter of personal space yielded.

“Who the hell are you, to think you know my business? Eh? I did everything up to standard in the Brownings’ ‘ouse. My standard, which is a great deal higher than most o’ these other scam artists ‘round ‘ere.” 

Carlisle paused to take a breath. Luckily, he also took a step back away from my friend. I know full well that Holmes can handle himself in a physical altercation, but I still would rather he not be forced into one if it were avoidable.

“What my companion is referring to,” I explained, making Carlisle’s angered expression turn my way, “is that there has been a death in the Brownings family, which the police are attributing to the recent electrical installation. Mr. Browning.”

Carlisle’s face went from red to dangerously pale in the span of a second. I thought for a moment that my medical assistance would be required, as the man teetered from foot to foot. But he soon recovered himself with a long sigh and a shake of the head.

“Blimey,” he murmured, his voice softer than we’d ever heard it. “What ‘appened?”

Holmes folded his hands gentle atop his walking stick, making himself a great deal more subdued.

“According to Mrs. Browning, the wiring was noticeably dangerous by the morning after its installation: the morning of her husband’s death.”

“‘Noticeably dangerous’,” Carlisle repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

“When we arrived at the Brownings house this morning,” Holmes continued, “the electricity had been completely ruined. Wires ran in and out of walls. Outlets were open and exposed to the air. Mrs. Browning said that it was even worse this morning than the other day, when the tragedy occurred.”

Carlisle shook his head again.

“Blimey. I didn’t leave a job anything like that,” he said adamantly. “I would never leave it lookin’ a mess. That’s no’ how I operate.”

“I am sure,” Holmes said, an attempt at a truce I suppose.

Carlisle bit his bottom lip and stared into space for a long moment. When he next looked up, he seemed fully recovered from the shocking conversation we’d just experienced.

“I will repair it, either way,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of someone ruining my work. I won’t charge Mrs. Browning anything, neither. She don’t have to pay; not after what ‘appened to her husband.”

“You are a good man,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Will it set you back very much?”

He shook his head.

“Nah; we’re makin’ good business on this street. All them, er…’well-to-do’ folks are on the trend of installing electricity. I’ll tell you what, it’s not been bad for ol’ Carter neither.”

“Carter?” Holmes asked.

“He’s an insurance agent,” said Carlisle. “He and I are always in a bit of competition with each other, really. He gets people to buy insurance by telling them my job is rubbish and their whole ‘ouse is at risk. But we don’t hold any grudges, me and Carter. We still go down the pub every Friday; catch up, have a laugh-”

“What is Mr. Carter’s first name?” Holmes cut in, seeing that Carlisle was about to launch into a whole biography.

“Clark. Clark Carter; he’s got a practice over in Mayfair, by Grosvenor Square.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carlisle,” Holmes said with a bow. “Here is my card, in case you would like to speak to us further.”

“Wait,” Carlisle called us back from the garden, “Who are you?”

Holmes turned with an overjoyed look on his face.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” he said proudly. “Private investigators.”

Carlisle nodded and raised Holmes’ card in the air.

“Alright. I’ll keep in touch, Mr. ‘olmes.”

Holmes doffed his cap once more before we started off down the street again. When we were safely out of earshot of any passersby, he stepped closer to me.

. . . . . . . . . 

“Are you thinking what I am thinking, Geordi?”

“There are a lot of guys with names starting with ‘C’ around here.”

Data turned to Geordi so sharply he would have gotten whiplash if he were human.

“That is not what I was referring to,” he murmured.

“I know; I know,” Geordi laughed. “Now we go see the insurance agent.”

“No, Geordi.” He looked up the road with an eager, boyish expression. “Now we ride a cab.”

Geordi clapped him on the back with a beaming smile. “I love that you love Sherlock Holmes so much.”

Data’s expression dampened slightly.

“I would not refer to my curiosity with Sherlock Holmes as ‘love’, as I can not experience emotion. However, I am glad that you find enjoyment in it as well.”

Geordi ran his hand along Data’s back for another moment.

“Off to the insurance agent’s?”

Data adjusted his deerstalker.

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Off to the insurance agent, Watson.”


	5. A Conversation with the Insurance Agent, Among More Lively Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very very strange and difficult week for me, as well as many of you I'm sure. Writing this was a much needed break from all of the complicated things I've been feeling and also a distraction from the national guard helicopters hovering over (what. a. week.). 
> 
> Anyhoo; I hope you're all doing well. And I hope you're all still enjoying the story!

Chapter Five

Clark Carter’s insurance office was perhaps one of the most luxurious I had seen. Bookshelves lined the entire back wall, their titles hardly visible from the door because of just how large the room was. An oak desk stood in front of his leather-bound chair. An on the floor sat a rug, one with an immeasurable number of threads and dyed the most expensive shades of purple and blue. 

Needless to say, I was rather jealous. My small medical practice was suffering ceiling leakages from the spring rains, whilst this man could buy out the whole place, myself included, at the cost of one of his silver fob watches or perhaps just his cigar. But, I put my envy aside and stood upright beside my friend Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes,” Carter said with a piercing blue eye. “Carlisle sent me a telegram telling me you may pay me a visit.”

“We will not keep you long,” Holmes replied politely, folding his hands over the top of his walking stick. 

“I ruddy well hope not,” Carter muttered under his breath. A moment later he returned to himself and blinked back into a smile. “Please, sit.”

Holmes waved him off.

“Mr. Carter,” he said, “we have learned of your grudge with Mr. Carlisle, the electrician. Do you hold any feelings against him?”

Carter’s thin brows drew together. A billow of smoke filtered out of his mouth as he lowered the cigar.

“No, I do not,” he said. “We have our differences, but we are a team.”

“A team?” I asked, letting out a short chuckle. “He said you sell insurance by telling them how bad he is as an electrician.”

Carter shook his head. “That’s all just business. I really admire Carlise; that’s why I pick on him so much.”

Holmes’ head tilted.

“I do not understand your meaning.”

Carter sat forward in his seat.

“It’s like this: if I sell insurance to someone, I don’t actually want them to draw on it, do I? Where’s the profit in that? So I go to places where old Carlisle is working and sell to them. His work never causes problems, so my customers never have to draw on the insurance I sell ‘em.” With a shrug, he sat back and had another smoke. “You can knock it if you want, but it’s all legal and it all works.”

Holmes and I shared a quick look as we processed his words. The man wasn’t exactly my hero; his practices seemed selfish and dishonest to me. But it was also clear that he wouldn’t want to cause damage; then he’d have to pay for it. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Carter,” Holmes said with a doff of his deerstalker. 

I doffed my own hat, and then we were out the door. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . 

“Geordi?” Data said as they wandered back toward Hyde Park. “Every development of this story appears to make the mystery more and more complex.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it?” Geordi replied. “We didn’t want it to be too easy.”

“I agree. However,” Data guided them into the park. “I was certain that the computer had made this mystery simple. I was certain that Carter would have something to do with the case.”

“Me too. I mean, why would it send us out here just to find out he had nothing to do with it?”

Data paused, staring into the distance. At first, Geordi thought perhaps he was watching one of the horse riders trotting along the outer edge of the park. But there was a slight frown in his lips that Geordi knew meant trouble.

“Perhaps it was what is usually referred to as a ‘red herring’,” Data said quietly. “A clue that appears meaningful, but is actually designed to set a detective in the wrong direction. A distraction.”

Geordi felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. All of a sudden it felt like the computer was a conscious being, watching them. Toying with them.

“A distraction from what?”

As soon as Geordi asked it, he regretted it. Because as soon as he asked it, a fire engine with a blaring bell raced past the park, heading-

“It is going toward Knightsbridge,” Data called over the thundering, frightened horse hooves and the clanging fire bell. “Where Mrs. Browning’s neighborhood is located.”

“Let’s go!” 

. . . . . . . . . . .

When we arrived in Knightsbridge, the air was filled with smoke. Looking down the road was as if looking through a filter; everything was just a little bit hazy, a little bit gray. Holmes and I chased after the fire engine with all of our might. Passersby gawked and gaped, and some trailed in our wake. 

But once we had arrived at the scene of the blaze, my heart returned to its casual thrum. The fire was mostly out by this time; saved by a fire engine already sitting in the front garden. The occupants of the house, a man with his wife and daughter, stood outside safe from harm’s way. 

“There goes the money I just won on that last case,” the man said bitterly. He ran a hand across his upper lip, fingers shaking as they stroked his moustache. “Wasted on that blasted electricity.”

“Albert, we’re lucky,” his wife chastised, hugging her daughter closer to her hip. “Nobody was hurt; we didn’t lose the house.”

“I know Susan. I know.”

Holmes was beside the family before I’d had time to notice him leave my side. When I did notice, I was struck suddenly with a feeling of nausea. My VISOR luckily kept the smoke out of my eyes, but it was so acrid in the air I could taste it more acutely than I’d tasted my lunch. 

I must say, I preferred the taste and smell of my lunch.

However, I did find Holmes through the interference the smoke was causing my vision. A moment later, I was by his side once again.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Did you by any chance have your electricity installed by a Mr. Carlisle?”

The man’s head whipped toward Holmes.

“You know the man? That devil. He must have been here all week, putting faulty electricity in everyone’s home.” He put his hands in his pockets, and then on his hips; as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “What a gimmick. He’ll be out of the city by tomorrow, mark my words. He’ll run off and sell his cheap works to some other poor, gullible-”

“Albert,” his wife said, setting a hand on his upper arm. “Come now; let’s not worry about that today. We need to find somewhere to sleep tonight.”

I met Holmes’ eyes with a sympathetic frown. He seemed to understand what I was telling him, somehow. Attribute it to the many years we had spent together, or Holmes’ hard work into understanding the human psyche, but he got my meaning.

“I believe that everyone should sleep in a different neighborhood tonight,” Holmes said, to the shock of the whole family. He turned on the spot and addressed the larger crowd that had gathered. “I include in that everyone who lives in this neighborhood.”

“Where shall we go?” Albert asked incredulously.

“Do not worry,” Holmes said. “There will be lodgings for you, at no cost. I will organize it.”

With that, Holmes spun on his heel and started toward Hyde Park once more. I hurried after him a moment later.

. . . . . . . . .

“Computer,” Data said up to the sky, once they were out of earshot of any passersby. “Generate enough hotel rooms for everyone in this neighborhood.”

They continued walking, confident that somewhere in London or its surrounding suburbs, there were hotels popping up out of nowhere. They walked through the park again, past the now-calm horses and their riders. Then to a street corner, where someone was rambling about the state of politics. 

Geordi remained quiet this entire time, not because he didn’t have questions or concerns (he had plenty of them), but because Data wore a worried frown the likes of which he had never worn before.


	6. A Cab Ride and a Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's a shorter chapter, but don't worry! I'll definitely make up for it next chapter with some extra excitement :) I hope you're enjoying reading! Don't hesitate to comment your thoughts so far.

Chapter Six

Data finally spoke again when they were in their cab home. This time he wore a much more somber expression than during their last cab ride.

“Geordi, there is a lot about this situation that I still do not understand.” He adjusted the deerstalker on his head as if to summon the spirit of Sherlock Holmes back into himself. “Someone set us off the trail just long enough to start a fire and escape without a trace.”

“Either someone really hates the electrician,” Geordi suggested, “or they hate the people in this neighborhood.”

Data shook his head at the thought.

“I do not believe that this crime is an act of hatred. Hatred drives intense feelings; quick action. This is much more calculated than that.”

Geordi shrugged with a sigh. “I don’t know, Data. Did you see how angry that homeowner was?”

“It is true that the crimes are generating strong emotion.” Data frowned slightly. “Perhaps that is the purpose.”

With that, Data banged on the roof of the cab. The horses stopped so abruptly that Geordi almost flew out of his seat; caught only just by Data’s outstretched palm.

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Driver!” Holmes called. “Please change our destination to Trafalgar Square.”

“Got it, sir.”

I turned a confused glance over to my friend. His eyes were brighter now than ever; his body sitting halfway off of his seat in his haste to get wherever we were going.

“Have you had a revelation, Holmes?” I inquired.

“Yes, Watson. You see, I have been caught up in the root of ‘why’ someone may commit these crimes. I have overlooked what the effect has been. No matter what the background story is, these fires are causing fear and antipathy toward the electrician, perhaps even electricity as a concept.”

“But Holmes,” I said, “who would go to such lengths to make people afraid of electricity?”

Holmes looked out the window for a long moment, and so did I. London’s streets were emptying as quickly as the sun was sinking. An early spring chill was beginning to set in the air; an ominous sign if I do say so myself. But that wasn’t what made the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. That was due to Holmes’ expression when he turned back to look at me.

“Afraid is one word, Watson.”

“One word...what is the other?” I asked.

Holmes’ eyes glistened in the light of the gas lamps we passed on our journey. Their yellow glow would have been haunting to one less familiar with him. To me, I only noticed the pained expression hidden behind the strange colored irises. He did not show his emotions to quite the degree of most others, but I could tell that something was bothering him tonight.

“Awe. People may fear something and hold it to a higher esteem because of it. Your field of medicine is one example of this phenomenon. People are afraid to learn and practice medicine, so it is widely viewed as an admired field only taken on by the very few who are brave enough to attempt it.”

“Why thank you, Holmes,” I said with a smile. 

But the smile was just a gimmick. I was really quite worried about what he was telling me. Someone in London was out making people afraid of electricity, an invention that opened up an entire future previously unexplored. And this person may be profiting off of the terror - and, by God, the death - that they have caused. 

For once, I hoped that my dear friend Holmes was wrong. 

"What are we heading toward in Trafalgar Square?"

“The newspaper this morning spoke of a demonstration in Trafalgar Square,” Holmes said, peeking out the window with trepidation. “A light show, using ‘new uses of electricity’.”

“Holmes, there is still something I don't understand," I said with a shake of the head. "The fire began not half an hour ago, but here we are headed to a light show twenty minutes away. How could you connect the two to one person?"

"I believe," Holmes said, "there may be more than one person involved in this crime. I am not certain, but it is the likeliest conclusion."

"More than one?" I shook my head again, letting a whistle escape between my pursed lips. "How many could be driven to commit these crimes for nothing but their own gain?"

Holmes did not respond to my question, nor did I really want him to. I had spent long enough in the company of detectives and private investigators to know that crime was a strange, strange world. Not petty crimes; robberies and such. Those had obvious purposes and obvious remedies. But crimes committed out of greed; out of malice; out of pure apathy to fellow persons...I did not understand them. I hoped I never would understand them.

"Holmes?" I murmured. "I must admit that this case makes me uneasy. There is no justifiable reason on this Earth I can find for someone to use electricity as a weapon against an entire neighborhood; putting children and whole families at serious risk."

“I know, Watson,” Holmes said shortly. His fist clenched on his thigh as his foot tapped up and down. I had never seen the man so agitated; so worried.

“Are you nervous, Holmes?”

He was quiet for a long time. But as we pulled around one last corner, to the sight of dozens of people gathered around a stage in front of the National Gallery, he turned back to me with a confident smile.

“Never, with you at my side, Watson.”

With that, we exited the cab and went out into the night. A night which will remain in my heart as one of the most exciting I ever enjoyed with Holmes. Exciting...and a great deal terrifying, as well.


	7. The Show Must Go On

Chapter Seven

As we approached the public square, a crowd was buzzing with excitement. Couples stood hand clasped in hand, while beside them children sat on their father’s shoulders. It was all a rather genial atmosphere. In another time, I might have even been enthused about it all. But on this evening, with Holmes’ eyes casting around like small searchlights, I found little to be happy about and much to be afraid of. 

Somewhere in our vicinity was someone who wasn’t averse to murder. 

“There’s the devil,” I said, as soon as the showman’s form appeared in the light of the lamps on either side of the stage.

To my surprise, he was a familiar face. The same face, in fact, and the same red hat I had seen on mine and Holmes’ walk through London the night before. On that night, Holmes had mentioned what a terrible time this was for circuses and the like; the dastardly crimes their showmen were capable of. I now knew just how selfish this man was. Selfish enough to commit murder, and risk far more murders, for his own gain.

The man’s smile was bright, his teeth almost as white as his pallid skin. Against the crimson hat and coat, he looked like a vampire; sickly and covered in blood. That was, of course, the work of my imagination. Perhaps I’d been reading too many stories. But either way, seeing him made me want to charge through the audience and tackle him right then and there.

He was the cause of Mrs. Brownings’ suffering. The cause of at least one home fire, if not more. The cause of an entire neighborhood at risk of electrocution, explosion, fire; death. I had no proof beside the deductions of my friend Holmes, but that was enough for me. 

On this night, that was enough to raise a fury within me.

“Can’t we stop him now, Holmes?” I asked. My fists were balled at my sides, ready for a rumble, if that’s what this came to. “He’s right there.”

Holmes lay a steadying hand on my breast. I would have been frustrated with his lack of action, but the intense stare he was giving the showman was enough to tell me he wasn’t idling. He was planning; plotting. Making sure that when we did strike, it would not be in vain.

“I wish to know his full capabilities,” Holmes said. “If he does have higher uses of electricity than are expected, then we may need to be careful.”

“That’s true,” I said, reluctantly. Shifting from foot to foot, I felt my heart beating in my throat. “But he makes me nervous, already. What if we aren’t able to stop him?”

“It is statistically likely that we will.”

I didn’t remind him that his statistics weren’t perfect predictions. 51% is ‘statistically likely’, but I would not care to tempt those odds. 

Holding my breath, I forced myself to relax. The show was beginning

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the showman said, his voice booming and his smile unwavering. “I present...the marvel of our age...Electricity...IN MOTION!”

With a flourish, the showman raised both of his hands. At the same time, two sparks of long electrical strands arced behind him. They created a sort of halo around the man; an aura almost like the one I always saw surrounding Holmes. But, of course, this halo was a bit more ominous. Crackling energy wavered around him; threatening to bite but never quite reaching his outstretched limbs.

The electricity went dark with a suddenness that made me jump. Then it was back, five feet in front of the man. This one moved carefully across the front of the stage, like lightning in slow motion. Every few feet it would spark out toward the crowd, who would reel in response. But it never connected with anyone; only tried to.

To me, this whole show seemed to be less of a spectacle and more of a threat. A growling dog that at any moment may choose to bite.

“Holmes,” I murmured.

He raised his pointer finger.

“I know, Watson,” he said. “Do not worry. He will not cause any harm tonight; he wants these people to love him, and hold him in high regard.”

“Maybe not intentionally,” I relented. “But there are always accidents with this sort of thing.”

Holmes seemed more at ease than I. Even as the showman came center stage again, with a cage of electrical sparks dancing all around him, Holmes’ posure was relaxed. It seemed that on some level he was actually enjoying the show.

“It is quite a marvel,” he said.

I gave him a quizzical look. How could he say such a thing, when we were watching a murder suspect? In that case, we were acting as a murder suspect’s audience! Did that not affect his mind at all? It certainly affected my mind.

“How can you watch this so easily?” I wondered aloud. My voice held more weight than I wanted it to. I never do like to get cross with Holmes. But in the moment, I was upset. Angered, guilty, wishing to be at home in my bed instead of out consorting with murderous fearmongers. 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Geordi, are you angry with me?” Data asked, flashing his big eyes toward his friend.

Geordi let out a deep breath. Then he let his shoulder tense up; let his irritation boil over. 

Why the hell not?

“A little bit,” Geordi said. It wasn’t like he could lie to Data; he’d see right through that anyway. “Why don’t we just end this now? What if someone gets hurt?”

“As I mentioned,” Data explained, “it is unwise to attempt to arrest someone before knowing what they are capable of. In addition, Holmes always makes a point to obtain evidence that can be used in a court of law, so that an arrest can be finalized.”

“What if he hurts someone before then?”

Data blinked a few times, as if clearing dust out of his eyes. After a moment of awkward silence, his lips curled into a gentle smile.

“The people on the Holodeck are fictional, Geordi.”

“So they don’t matter?” 

Geordi didn’t want to be angry with Data. He didn’t want to be angry at all. But he’d gotten invested in the story; he’d let these characters into his heart. When he’d found Mrs. Brownings crying on the steps of the bank, she wasn’t just a fictional woman in a mystery story; she was a person he really wanted to help. And these people around them - they felt real. Real enough to hold conversations with. Real enough to feel pity toward.

Real enough to fear.

“I’m sorry, Data,” Geordi said with a frown. “Maybe I need to take a break.”

Data turned up to the sky without hesitation. 

“Computer?” he called. “Arch.”

They waited and....nothing happened. 

“Computer!” Geordi shouted. “Arch!”

Still nothing happened. 

Great.

Geordi took a few deep breaths. If they were gonna be stuck here, he better get his emotions under control. It wouldn’t do to have another fight with Data in Victorian England; they might as well have some fun with it. After all, it really was just a story.

He gave Data a knowing smile. In that smile, he tried to communicate that he was going to try to relax; try to be happy; try not to worry.

But then his VISOR landed on the showman, and a weight sank deep into his chest.

“Data?” Geordi asked, tugging on the taller man’s sleeve. “The showman is using something like a computer.”

“Ah,” Data gasped. “I see.”

“Did he do something to the computer? Is that why it’s not responding to us?”

Data frowned sharply.

“It appears so. It was most likely an accident, but the effect is the same. We will not be able to leave the Holodeck until we discover what he has done and remedy it.”

Geordi groaned. He took another deep breath, trying to force calm upon himself. But how could he be calm? He was stuck in a computer program with a creepy murdery showman and there was no end to this madness in sight! What time was it, anyway? Was he late for his shift? Who knew?!

“This is why I said we should arrest him!” Geordi said loudly. Data winced in response, and it almost made him regret his anger. But then a wave of fear sparked even more of the poisonous ire and he continued, “Why didn’t you listen to me? Now we’re stuck here!”

“Geordi,” Data said quietly.

“What? Now you want to apologize?”

“Geordi!” 

Data’s shout made Geordi pause. He took a breath and suddenly found all of his anger gone; just like that. It took a moment for his brain to catch up with what he’d been saying; how loudly he’d been shouting at his best friend.

“Data,” Geordi croaked, “I’m so sorry...I...what’s gotten into me?”

Data glanced over to the showman. When Geordi followed his gaze, he found the man at a control panel, manipulating something on a panel on his stage. 

“Did he…?”

“It appears,” Data said, “that his electricity work disrupts something to do with your VISOR. It is connected directly to your brain, and he is using the electromagnetic spectrum to operate his light show.”

“That’s...genuinely frightening. He can manipulate my thoughts!”

“Yes, but Geordi.” Data lowered his voice. “I do not believe he knows this yet.”

Geordi watched the showman. He wasn’t looking at them anymore; just moving beams of blue, white, and red light around to form an image of the union flag in midair. 

Well, that was something. At least his mind control was unintentional.

“So,” Geordi said with a deep exhale, “what do we do?”

“We must wait until the show is over.” Data kept his eyes glued on the showman. 

Geordi hated the idea of sitting here watching this performance. He hated the sparking electricity making his head ache. He hated being trapped on the Holodeck. But Data was right; if they wanted to bring this guy to justice and, more importantly, figure out what he’d done to the computer, they would have to be patient. 

They would have to be patient, and they would have to be careful.


	8. A Chase through the London Night

Chapter Eight

I knew that the show was coming to a grand finale when five electrical lines came to life around the stage. The sight was magnificent. White lights danced along wires leading to a canopy above the showman, as he twirled his baton and moved as if he were controlling the electrical supply. Joining the white lights were dots of blue; red; green. Soon there were rainbows arcing behind him, flashing brightly behind the white canopy lights.

My VISOR forced me to look away from the sight. The usual ache in my temples had spiked into a throbbing pain, as lights flashed and danced before me. 

I believe I made an unconscious groaning noise, because Holmes’ eyes darted over to me. Upon seeing the look on his face, eyes wide and lips set in a frown, I waved him off and forced myself to stand taller.

“I’m alright, Holmes,” I murmured.

He didn’t look convinced, but he did turn back to the stage. There wasn’t any time for my headache; there was a murder suspect to catch. We would need to act quickly. I knew this as well as Holmes did.

And so I swallowed my nausea; my vertigo. I changed a setting on my VISOR so that the lights weren’t quite as painful. And as the showman made his final pose and the audience cheered with all of its might, Holmes and I shuffled around the throng of people and made our way closer to the stage.

The night was dark at this point. It was not a problem for Holmes nor myself, with our special vision. And that would be our advantage. Perhaps our only advantage.

“Watson,” Holmes whispered, as we hid behind the central fountain as inconspicuously as two adult men roaming London in the middle of the night possibly can. “I believe it would be useful to follow the suspect home.”

I had an immediate resistance to this plan. First of all, a respected doctor such as myself generally did not follow people home, and would be at risk of imprisonment for stalking if they did. Of course my qualms about this were easily repaired with the fact that this was a murderer we were talking about; a murderer who was most likely plotting more murder tonight. 

My second set of qualms was more difficult to quell: I did not want to follow after someone whom I knew was dangerous. I am not a coward, by any means. But I am not an idiot. The quiet, shadowy streets of night could hide many evils; including the disappearance of one Sherlock Holmes and his companion Dr. Watson. And once we began following the man, he would have nothing to lose but our trailing footsteps.

“Are you sure, Holmes?” I asked, adjusting my VISOR so that his aura glowed more brightly beside me.

He gave me an apologetic frown; an expression I like to believe he saved for myself alone, for these special occasions when he was forced to push me out of my comfort zone.

“We must investigate what he is doing and how he is doing it,” Holmes said. “As well as gather evidence of his involvement.”

I nodded. His argument was sound, and I knew deep down that he was correct. I only wished that I could return to my little desk by the window in our Baker Street flat, watching the wind rustle through the tree branches outside. 

Before I could fall too deep into my pit of self pity, Holmes was nudging me along the outer edge of the fountain. I stumbled over the cobblestones, and then righted myself back to a crouch.

“There he is,” Holmes whispered.

The showman’s red tophat was as bright in the light of the gas lamps as it had been in the middle of the day. He was cleaning up the wires he’d used; setting them all neatly into an open briefcase laid out on the stage. 

When the showman glanced our way, I dropped my face beneath the edge of the fountain. My breath was as quick as my racing heart in that moment. My forehead pressed against Holmes’ coat, my eyes shut, as I waited. Waited. Waited.

Holmes shifted, and that was my cue to sit up again. My VISOR adjusted quickly and found the showman starting off down the street, stopping briefly to shake hands with an audience member. Me and Holmes stayed close to the fountain; pretended to engage in a conversation. And then, as the showman snatched up his briefcase and began walking again, we trailed in his wake.

It was a terrifying game of cat and mouse. Only, in this case, I was unsure whether we were the cat or the mouse. We were the hunters, tracking down our prey. But we were the ones filled with terror. 

At least, I was filled with terror. Holmes never does seem afraid of anything. 

“He is turning right,” Holmes remarked. He didn't need to, because I could see the man clearly. But I was glad to hear his voice. There is something about the night that makes one feel desperately alone, even when one is surrounded by passing taxicabs and their best friend. 

We gave the showman a few moments after he’d turned, and then followed after him. 

This street was in the part of London I was most unfamiliar with. Tall, crooked buildings stacked like pancakes flanked us on both sides. Their windows were aglow with candlelights, which flickered out one by one as we passed by. I could only hope that their residents were going to sleep, and not turning out their lights in fear of our showman.

But the strangest part of this street was the destination. It was a dead end road, which approached an enormous warehouse. The building loomed as if in a child’s horror story; great spires reached up into the night and appeared to touch the rolling gray clouds. Even if it were daytime, I would expect the facade of the building to be lifeless; from a setting in my VISOR I could see that the walls were made of impossibly thick stones of the hardest material.

This warehouse, of course, was where our man seemed to be headed. He set his hands in his pockets and glanced around himself. A man disturbed; a man on the run. I stuttered in my steps, just once, and reached out to Holmes’ sleeve. But then the showman shook his head and continued on without further delay.

He slipped into the building so suddenly that I doubted my vision. Looking right and then left, I worried we had lost him. But no; Holmes had seen him slip into a gap in the door. He even went to follow right after him, but I grabbed his arm before he could.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Data,” Geordi said between gritted, chattering teeth. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“I know,” he admitted. “However, the computer is still nonfunctional. The cause of the malfunction is most likely located in the showman’s briefcase. If we are to return to the Enterprise, we must keep after him.”

Geordi let out a sigh. Data was right; he was always right. But standing here in the middle of a cold London night with nowhere to go but inside a building with a dangerous, possibly murderous, man...

“I don’t like our options right now, D.”

“Nor do I,” said Data. “Shall we enter, anyway?”

Geordi paused for a moment. Then, breathing in some falsified version of confidence, he nodded.

“Let’s go.”

. . . . . . . . .

The warehouse was even darker and even bleaker than its facade would suggest. I had to adjust my VISOR just to make out basic shapes. The new setting made Holmes glow incredibly bright; like a lighthouse in the middle of a stormy night. That was okay; that was good. Then I could keep an eye on him.

What wasn’t okay or good were the other objects in the room. Rows and rows of tables took up most of the large space. Every one of these tables was packed with gadgets and gizmos; batteries, wires, generators. I could’ve had a field day, in different circumstances. In these circumstances, the sight was nerve wracking. A bit like a scientist’s laboratory.

“Who are you?!” A booming voice shouted from the darkness. The showman’s voice.

I turned up to find the man standing on a metal staircase, which led to yet another floor filled with his anachronistic inventions. I stuttered back into Holmes, accidentally stepping on his foot. Then righted myself and forced some more feigned courage.

“Funny,” I said, “we were about to ask you the same thing.”

“This is my property,” the showman said, unamused. “I will ask you once to leave.”

Holmes stepped in front of me and pulled off his hat. Pulled off his overcoat. Then, ignoring the showman completely, he started walking beside the tables. As he strolled along, his eyes were wide. His curious fingers ran along the smooth edges of the technology.

“How did you find your inspiration for such creations?” he asked sweetly.

I could have screamed, if I weren’t so flabbergasted. As it were, I stayed silent and frozen to the spot, my jaw gaping as I stared at Holmes’ continued provocations.

The showman, it seemed, was not as impressed with my friend’s boldness. His clambering feet carried him down the steps two at a time. 

“Get your hands off of those!” he shouted, maneuvering around the tables as he approached Holmes. “What do you want?”

“We want to know,” Holmes said, returning to my side, “why you are creating electrical hazards in the Knightsbridge neighborhood.”

The showman’s expression dropped into a horrified frown. Then a sneer. Then his eyebrows drew closely together. 

“Leave,” he said darkly. “Turn, walk out of the door, and never return.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. Here was a man standing in the midst of his electrical devices, half of which bore the name ‘Carlisle Electrics’, and he was attempting to act as if he were in control? As if he weren’t caught red handed?

“Sir,” I said. “Where did you obtain this technology?”

“It does not concern you,” he replied. “Now go.”

Holmes tilted his head, rolling up his sleeves. He picked up one of the devices; a metallic work the size of a large cat.

“This is an energy converter,” said Holmes. “Used in your show, I am assuming?”

“Yes,” the showman said calmly. “Now please leave my property before I call the authorities.”

I had to laugh again.

“You are a caught criminal. The authorities will have you for the murder of Mr. Brownings.”

The showman's eyes lit up, and I suddenly wondered why I had said such a thing. Why anyone would say such a thing to a murder suspect.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” he said, with glancing eyes. 

His calm was ebbing into panic. 

“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I did not mean to-”

“To accuse me of murder?” he asked. “Leave my property. Now. In that case, leave London. I tend to hold grudges.”

“I am afraid,” Holmes said, “we require your briefcase in order to leave London.”

“What?” the showman made himself appear larger than he was. 

Once again, his appearance reminded me of the myth of the vampire. Tall, pale, skinny, standing in the darkness of his lair. 

“Give us the briefcase you used during your performance this evening,” I explained. “And we will leave you alone forever.”

The showman bared his teeth. He did not have fangs that I could see. He didn’t need them, with a smile as menacing as his.

“I will count to three, and you will leave.”

Holmes said, “I suggest-”

“One.”

Holmes’ eyebrows furrowed. “I would advise-”

“Two.”

“Watson, I believe-”

“Three.”

Without hesitation; without pause; without time to reflect, the showman snatched a device from the nearest table. It was a small, metallic thing. 

Without remorse; without thought; without much ado, he raised it to point blank range. 

Without blinking, he turned it toward Holmes. 

Without care, he fired.

. . . . . . . . . .

“DATA!” Geordi screamed.

A ball of electricity hit Data square in the chest. It lit his whole body up in blue and white. Then, horrifyingly, it made its way through his systems. Each of his limbs spasmed once, and then became rigid. Once his whole body had felt this effect, he dropped to the ground. There he lay, unmoving, as Geordi stared in horror. 

The center of his vest was a charred mess of fabric and still crackling electricity. 

His aura was not glowing.

“Data,” Geordi breathed, falling to his knees. His hands were shaking; vibrating, as they hovered above Data’s still form. Geordi’s entire body felt like it was made not of solids, not of bone, not of organs; just nerves. Geordi wondered if he’d been hit by the electricity as well. But no; it was just his emotions.

‘Just’. 

“Data,” he repeated. “Data, wake up, buddy.”

He shook Data’s shoulders; ignored the way it made his head oscillate back and forth. He patted his cheeks; ignored the blank, golden eyes staring up at him. He rubbed his arms; ignored the heat emanating from the fabric of Data’s rolled up sleeves. 

Ignored the smell of burning plastic. Ignored the stillness; the emptiness; the lifelessness of his best friend.

Geordi spared a glance over to the showman and found him halfway out of the building, carrying his briefcase.

And suddenly there was a choice. It was a choice Geordi would not have chosen to make if he’d been offered the world. He could stay here with Data and see if he could repair him with whatever tech he could find in here. Or he could chase after the showman, retrieve the briefcase, get home, and possibly save some Londoners while he did it. 

“Data,” Geordi repeated, shaking him roughly. “Wake up. Please, please wake up.”

He wanted Data to wake up because otherwise the choice was obvious. They needed to get back to the Enterprise for any chance of saving Data. And to get back to the Enterprise, Geordi needed to get whatever was in that briefcase. 

But how could he just walk away from Data? Leave him on the floor of some crummy Victorian warehouse, collecting dust? It went against every one of Geordi’s instincts. He could not; would not leave him like this. 

But he had to.

As precious seconds ticked by, Geordi gave himself one last moment with his friend. His fingers played with the buttons of Data’s vest, hoping against all odds to feel the rise and fall of his synthetic breathing. 

It didn’t happen. 

Geordi breathed in; breathed out. Swallowing his tears, he raised a hand to Data’s face. As he stroked the bioplast skin, his fingers were not under his control. They were so terribly shaky. But somehow he managed to do what he set out to: he closed Data’s eyelids. 

There; he was just sleeping. He was just knocked out, and Geordi would wake him up as soon as he was done catching the criminal. There was no reason for tears. There was no need for panic.

Now, if only Geordi could actually convince himself of that.

“I’m sorry, Data,” Geordi croaked. “I’m sorry, I gotta go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He forced himself up. Forced his legs to move away. 

When he reached the door, he looked back again. The sight was another punch in the gut. Data lay there with one arm outstretched and one hand on the charred front of his Sherlock Holmes vest. Geordi turned away quickly, but the image was already burned into his subconscious. It was everywhere he looked in the London night.

But that image did one good thing; it made him determined. It made him faster. It made him energized.

“Alright, showman,” Geordi said through gritted teeth. “Let’s finish this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....sorry y'all


	9. The Show Must Not Go On

Chapter Nine:

The night was cold and getting colder. If Geordi’s mind weren’t so occupied, he may have even noticed. But as it was, he had one thought only. No, two thoughts.

He had to get that briefcase.

And he had to save Data.

Nothing else mattered, on this April evening. His heart hammered in his chest as he ran full out in the direction the showman had gone. His head ached from the pulsing colors input from the VISOR as he raced down and up London’s streets. None of that registered; not now. Not when he had such an important mission.

Not when Data was in trouble.

“I suggest you go home,” the showman growled suddenly. 

Geordi froze in his tracks. Turned, to find the showman leering at him from the center of the sidewalk. The briefcase was right there, in the guy’s hand. If only the showman weren’t such a tall, creepy, vampire man in a hat the color of blood. The image of him, glowing in the gas lamps, was enough to spark terror in Geordi’s frantic heart.

“Just give me the case,” Geordi pleaded. “I don’t care about anything else.”

“The case is everything.” The showman backed up a few paces, prompting Geordi to follow after him at the same slow speed. “Nothing else matters.”

With that, the showman dashed off. Geordi sighed heavily, but then followed without hesitation. He would not lose track of that man or his sacred case. He would not be trapped here and unable to help Data. There was not an alternative; he had to keep going.

The showman turned sharply down the next road, then weaved down a side street. Geordi’s VISOR made tracking him easy. It was sprinting that was becoming difficult. Apparently the showman was an Olympic track runner before he’d turned to electrical displays. The man was too fast to be real. 

Then again, Geordi remembered, all of this wasn’t real.

As he made his way after the suspect, through the chilling London night and the settling fog, Geordi daydreamed. What if Riker or Worf or anyone else discovered the problem with the Holodeck? What if they crashed through and saved the day and helped Geordi and Data get back to the Enterprise? What if this horrible nightmare faded out of existence, finally, and this stupid showman got his deserts? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

The dream certainly sounded amazing. But it was only a dream. 

Geordi was reminded of this fact as he realized where he was…

Back in Knightsbridge.

Gazing around, he realized that many of the neighborhood’s residents had not followed Data’s directive to find alternate lodgings for the night. It was to be expected; wealthy people in well-to-do neighborhoods didn’t typically want to leave their homes and estates unattended to stay in some rugged hotel on the other side of town. If it were Geordi, and a couple strangers had said that his house was in some kind of mysterious ‘danger’ that he didn’t understand, he wouldn’t have believed them either.

But even so, he was a bit disappointed. And more so, he was scared. In these houses were children and parents and pets and nannies. Half of them were most likely asleep already. The others were reading bedtime stories or arguing about getting washed and dressed for bed. They didn’t expect there to be a lunatic rummaging around their homes, stirring up trouble. They didn’t expect a possible house fire, or worse.

Looking around again, Geordi found the showman. He was hidden mostly by the shadows beside the nearest home; an enormous single-family estate with intricate details etched into the windows. 

“What are you doing?” Geordi asked loudly.

The showman gave him a glare, and then popped up from his crouched position. He was holding a wire of some sort. And he was carrying it…

“Woah,” Geordi gasped, holding his hands up. “What are you doing with that?”

The showman passed him by with one hand clasped around his briefcase and one holding both the wire and the weapon he’d used on Data. Geordi knew not to test him; he’d fire again in a heartbeat and they both knew it. But he also knew what the showman was up to.

He was attaching the wire to the nearest lamppost; a gas lamp. But it wasn’t only a gas lamp. At some point, the showman had fitted it with a contraption; another one of his little inventions. It’d probably been there all day. Data had most definitely noticed it.

Damn it. If only Data was here now.

“Okay, I know what you’re doing,” Geordi said.

“Be quiet!” The showman hissed, turning his weapon on Geordi.

Geordi didn’t let himself be afraid. Well, he didn’t let the showman know he was afraid.

“But why are you doing it?”

“I have my reasons.”

The showan kept his hold on his briefcase and his weapon as he finished fitting the wire into place. Then he wandered to the house across the street. To the same place on the house as he’d seen before. With a new wire of the same kind.

“Maybe I can help,” Geordi suggested.

The showman gave him another glare as he returned to the street lamp. The way he was walking, Geordi thought he would pass him right by. But then he stopped, turned on his heel, and looked straight into his VISOR.

“You know,” the showman said, “I want you to know. I do not do this out of hatred. It is merely a business maneuver.”

Geordi felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up. He really was dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, wasn’t he? 

“You see,” the showman continued. “I have a device that will destroy this whole neighborhood. I’ve been preparing it all week, with a few mishaps.”

“Mishaps?” Geordi scoffed. “You mean a death and a blazing house fire? Putting a whole neighborhood at risk?”

“It had to be this neighborhood,” the showman growled. “People care about these people; the rich, the powerful. When they find out how dangerous electricity is...when they’re houses burn because of it...they will respect its power. And then they’ll come crawling to me, the man who can control lightning.”

Geordi shook his head. He wanted to laugh, the man was so ridiculous. But the pierced look in the guy’s eye made it clear he wasn’t to be trifled with. He was dangerous. Dangerous because he truly didn’t care.

“The famous ‘bottom line’,” Geordi said. “My friend mentioned there were people like you in this time period. I didn’t believe him. Because I thought people were better than that.”

“You and your friend are fools,” the showman spat back, turning to the lamp post. He turned with one last sneer. “Well, you are a fool. He was a fool. My condolences.”

The words landed in Geordi’s ears like the electricity this bastard was famous for. His face burned; his heart skipped a beat; his hair raised high off of his skin. Geordi was a pacifist, as any good Starfleet officer was. But just in this moment, he could understand the pull to violence. He could see why wars started, and how a person could hate another person. 

But there was no time to be angry. There was no room for emotion here; as much as Geordi needed emotion, as much as he needed to feel what he was feeling. The showman was already approaching the streetlight. Already putting hundreds of people at risk for some messed up version of respect. Already pulling something out of his briefcase…

“Hey, does that work by adjusting the electricity’s frequency?”

The showman seemed shocked at Geordi’s question. He even paused in his work to look up at him. But he didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Geordi knew what to do. He knew how to save the day. It was going to be tough, but he could do it. He had to do it.

Shutting his eyes, Geordi allowed himself to sink into his VISOR’s readings. Don’t look around; don’t worry about anything else. What frequency was the guy operating on? At what point would it affect the VISOR? At what point would it cause a fire?

Geordi felt the slight jolt when his emotions became something other than his own. His heart beat faster, and suddenly he was overcome with a sense of hopelessness and anger and grief and guilt. 

But they weren’t thoughts; just feelings. And they didn’t tell him the truth. He could ride them like a wave; ride through the wavelength. Find the truth. Find the facts. 

There; the feelings were gone. 

The showman’s device was rapidly approaching the fatal frequency; the point at which a spark would ignite the lamp and send a cascading streak of electricity through all of the poorly wired houses on this block.

Geordi focused. Focused. Focused.

His VISOR latched onto the dot of electricity, moving from the device to the lamp.

It found its frequency; its wavelength. 

And then it sent out a signal. Just to the right place; just at the right frequency. 

It cancelled out the fatal spark. It sent it back in the opposite direction.

And suddenly, very suddenly, the device in the showman’s hand sparked and danced with electricity. It shocked him up and down the arm; made him cry out in a way that made Geordi feel a bit guilty.

The showman grabbed his hand with his opposite arm; aching. And as he did so, Geordi seized his chance. He snatched the briefcase off of the ground and then bounced back to his feet.

He ran down the cobblestone road, running in zigzags just in case the guy came to his senses. And then he shouted.

“Everybody!” he yelled. “The Great Electric Show is here tonight! One night only! Right at the end of the road!”

People ran out of their houses in their pajamas to see what all the commotion was about. (people on this street were tired of commotions by now). And in the safety of dozens of eyes watching the showman, Geordi ran and ran.

He ran through the park.

He ran down streets.

He ran until he knew he was in the clear. 

And just beside a theater, where people were filing out after a performance, Geordi knelt to the ground. He opened the briefcase, studied it for a moment (ah, this wire was in the wrong place; this one was moved; this device needs to be adjusted).

And when everything looked right and his VISOR could find no faults, Geordi turned to the sky.

“Computer, arch!”

A silver, metallic arch appeared, with a computer screen and everything.

And possibly for the first time in his life, Geordi actually wept at the sight.


	10. Geordi Comes to the Rescue

Chapter Ten

“Computer, reconfigure the layout of the program,” Geordi said to the small screen by the metal archway. “Put the building Data’s in right across the street.”

The computer bleeped at him, and then did as it had been told. The buildings across the streets shimmered, along with everyone inside of them. They faded into a bright light and were replaced with that old factory building. It looked like it had always been there, and passersby treated it as such.

“Thank you,” Geordi breathed. Thank God for technology, or else he’d never find Data in these winding old fashioned streets. But then again, technology was what had got them into this mess in the first place, so maybe he was giving it a bit too much credit.

Geordi dashed across the street with only a slight worry of being hit by a cab. His mind couldn’t be expected to consider such things when he was running toward Data.

Would he be alright? Was the damage already done?

Geordi tore through the front door of the building, shoving it open so loud that it banged against the nearest wall. He turned sharply to the floor.

And there Data lay, undisturbed by the clammering door. He was in exactly the position Geordi had left him in, with that same charred fabric covering the wound in his chest.

“Hey buddy,” Geordi whispered. He knelt to the floor with his hand gently braced on Data’s shoulder. “Told you I’d be back.”

Geordi ran a quick scan over his body. His VISOR had multiple settings to work with, which made the task easier. It also brought him some calm. Because even though on the surface Data seemed lost to the world, without a pulse or a breath to speak of, Geordi could see the cogs working in his head and the electricity still sputtering through his inner frame. 

He was still there. Still alive.

“Computer, arch,” Geordi said, causing another metal arch to appear beside them.

“Let’s get you home, D.”

Geordi forced himself up and shifted his hands beneath Data’s armpits. It was tough to drag him, even just the two feet of distance to the doorway of the arch. After all, Data was mostly made of metal. But Geordi did it. He did it without complaining. He did it without asking anything in return besides a prayer: ‘please, let him be okay’.

. . . . . . . .

“Ensign!” Geordi shouted, to the only person he saw in the hallway when he and Data burst out of the Holodeck in a heap of limbs. “Get Doctor Crusher. We’ve got a medical emergency.”

The poor kid seemed as shocked as she was concerned for the commanding officer lying on the floor. But she gathered herself quickly. A nod, and she was tapping her Comm badge.

“We’re back on the Enterprise, Data,” Geordi said softly, hovering above the android’s still face. He ran his fingers through his slicked back bangs. “Stay with us a little longer.”

Geordi let himself collapse into a seated position as he gathered his breath. Running through London and then dragging Data had taken a lot out of him. Even the ensign seemed worried about him; almost as worried as she was about Data.

“Commander La Forge?” she asked, stuttering forward. “Doctor Crusher is on her way.”

“Thank you, Ensign.” Geordi leaned his head back against the wall. Ah, how good it felt to be back in the real world. Now if only Data would wake up.

For a long moment, Geordi kept his head on the wall and his eyes closed. His fingers traced along Data’s shoulder, down to his hand, and then back up to his shoulder. The truth was, today was catching up to him. Especially the past hour. What he needed now was a nap, if not a drink from under the counter in Ten Forward. 

But the nap and the drink would have to wait. Footsteps entered the space, multiple people hurrying toward their sorry looking duo. Geordi suddenly realized they were still in their Holodeck outfits, he in a full suit and bowtie and Data in his vest and rolled up sleeves. 

What a funny thing to realize at a time like this.

“Geordi, what happened?” Doctor Crusher asked.

She was knelt on the floor before he’d opened his eyes. By the time he did, she was whipping out her medical tricorder. Damn, she was always on her A game. Thank God, too, because Geordi’s A Game was slipping away more and more every second.

“We were solving a mystery on the Holodeck and the ‘bad guy’ had some kind of weapon. It-it used some kind of electricity. Like an old timey taser, but stronger. He hit Data right in the chest.”

“Alright,” Beverly said, in a much calmer voice than the situation warranted. She looked up at Geordi and made sure he was looking at her before she spoke again. “Geordi, why don’t you sit back and take a few deep breaths? My team will get him onto the grav sled and take him to sickbay.”

“But I need to help.” Geordi sat up abruptly, hovering his hands above Data’s body without really knowing what he wanted to do with them. He was probably in the way of the medical team trying to move Data onto a stretcher. But how could he think properly at a time like this? “I-I can’t just take a break now! He needs me.”

“Geordi,” Beverly soothed, with a hand on his arm. “There’s nothing we can do until we have the right equipment. I ran a scan and all of his most important systems are stable.”

“They are?”

“Yes.” Beverly smiled, squeezing Geordi’s sleeve. “Take a breath. Remember what I’m always saying?”

“Patients need calm doctors,” Geordi said, with a tiny smile of his own. He took a few deep breaths as the team worked Data onto the grav sled. “I gotta tell you doc, I never went to medical school.”

Beverly cocked her head.

“You’d do pretty well, if you did. I think you’re Data’s favorite doctor around here.”

“Nah,” Geordi waved her off. Then tilted his head. “You think so?”

Beverly squeezed his arm once more, and then turned to help her team. 

. . . . . . . . . 

“I’m gonna start his activation program,” Geordi said. “If there are any problems, I’ll cut the switch.”

It hadn’t been nearly as bad as it could have been. Like many times before, Data’s condition looked worse than it was. Sure, his heart and lungs hadn’t functioned for nearly an hour. But for him, that was as big of a concern as a slight fever was for a human. Beyond that, the damage was reparable; the pieces replicable. 

Data was not going to die today. 

Geordi flipped the switch and then stood back, beside Beverly. Her eyes and his VISOR stared at the android below them without blinking. For a long moment, nothing happened. Data lay still as a stone, with closed eyes and unmoving limbs. Geordi folded one arm across his chest while he chewed the opposite thumb nail.

“Come on, Data,” he murmured. 

And suddenly, finally, Data’s eyebrows shifted. A moment later, his eyes opened wide and his head tilted toward Geordi.

The sight made Geordi want to cry again.

“Hey buddy,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Data gave him the usual ‘you know I do not have feelings’ look, with his lips and eyebrows tilted up to his two companions.

“I am functioning within normal parameters.” He sat up abruptly, prompting Beverly to grab his shoulders, and looked around the space. “We are no longer on the Holodeck?”

“No,” Geordi explained. “I had to bring you back here to fix you after, er...do you remember what happened?”

Data stared for a moment, and then nodded. 

“Yes. I do not remember anything after I was deactivated, however. Were you able to catch the showman?”

Beverly rolled her eyes, as she crossed her arms.

“Data…” she sighed to herself with a smile.

“Doctor? Is there something wrong?”

“Not wrong, just...less than an hour ago, we found you lying on the floor almost nonfunctional, and you finally wake up and you’re asking about a fictional mystery plot.”

Data tilted his head.

“It is important for a mystery to have a sense of...closure. Is that not correct?”

Beverly shook her head with another smile. But then she betrayed her true feelings and set a hand on Data’s shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back, Data.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

They shared a smile, and then Beverly walked off to check on her other patients. Geordi watched her go, and then took a step closer to the bed.

“Geordi?” Data asked suddenly. 

“Yeah? Oh, right. I did catch the guy. I had to chase him through half of London. Eventually I caught up with him, and he was setting up connections between the houses and the gas lamp outside. He was rigging the whole place to blow.”

“Blow? Ah, explode.” Data’s eyes widened. “What purpose would the showman have in exploding a wealthy London neighborhood?”

Geordi shrugged.

“He said it was to make electricity ‘respected again’ or something. Or feared. He wanted everyone to bow down to him because he’s the only one who can control the electricity around there.”

Data processed this for a long moment. 

“I am sorry I was not able to assist you in finishing the case,” Data said. “However, I am grateful that I can always rely on my Watson to save the day. And me, in that case.”

Geordi’s smile grew until it was a shining beacon of joy. 

“Geordi?” Data asked again. “Were you able to bring the showman to justice?”

Geordi scratched the back of his neck.

“Well, not exactly. He’s still out there. I had to get back to you. You had me worried for a minute there, Data.”

Data turned away to avoid Geordi’s gaze. But then, slowly, he turned back to him with a hopeful smile.

“Would you like to finish the case once and for all?”

Geordi groaned.

“Not today, buddy. I need to sleep, you need to rest, and Beverly would actually throw me in the brig if either of us got hurt again.”

“That is prudent,” Data said, then tilted his head. “After we have both rested, would you like to repair the Holodeck? Perhaps we can fix the safety controls, so that our adventures will not be so perilous.”

Geordi let out a chuckle, happy and relieved and feeling ten times better than he had just an hour or two ago. 

“I’d love to, Data.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading!


End file.
